It doesn't much signify whom one marries, for one is sure to find next morning that it was someone else.

Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

The soul of music slumbers in the shell Till waked and kindled by the master's spell; And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour A thousand melodies unheard before!

Gentle to others, to himself severe.

Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.

By many a temple half as old as Time.

Paris strikes the vulgar part of us infinitely the most, but to a thinking mind London is incomparably the most delightful subject for contemplation.